


Before Whose Glare Grow Pale

by intorqueo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Blood and Gore, Death, Graphic Description of Corpses, Murder Mystery, Not Happy, Oneshot, POV Alternating, Present Tense, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-26 22:55:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17755052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intorqueo/pseuds/intorqueo
Summary: It's 1992 at Hogwarts, and there's been a murder. It was sudden and brutal, and it has left the entire school alert and anxious. The killer continues to walk the halls, and Harry, Hermione and Neville struggle to solve the mystery before something else happens...they fail.





	Before Whose Glare Grow Pale

**Author's Note:**

> *Title from The Watcher, a poem written November 1939 by American poet Ridgeley Torrence
> 
> Please read the tags.
> 
> If you wish to volunteer to Beta, please contact me; I can only proofread so much by myself.  
> Cross-posted on FFnet under the same username.

Harry stares at the scene before him, wide-eyed. The other students surrounding him gasp and whimper, and an older girl screams—high pitched and loud. Someone’s bag falls to the ground with a clatter, and a myriad of quills and parchment scatter among the shards of a broken inkwell. Something in Harry’s stomach twists, and bile creeps up his throat. To his left, Neville fails to hold back his own vomit, and stumbles away from the group to empty himself of his dinner.

 

‘D-dear Merlin, no–’ Percy Weasley cuts himself off as the colour drains from his face. He pushes the other present Prefect away, and she begins to run down the hallway even as Percy begins to herd the students away from the awful scene before them.

 

‘E-everyone remain calm,’ he says, sounding much more vulnerable than usual, as though he’s just barely able to keep standing. His back is firmly facing the scene, and his eyes are screwed shut tightly; tears already threatening to overflow.  ‘I’ve sent Marie-Anne t-to go get Professor McGonagall—she...she’ll know what to do...’

 

He keeps talking, something about how everyone should head to the infirmary, but Harry isn’t really listening. There’s a slight ringing in his ears, and he can’t breathe right. He just can’t tear his eyes away from the morbid sight in front of him. The tiny hands are tied to a torch bracket, limp and curled. Streaks of red trail down from fingers to split, swollen wrists, and even more blood clings to the black robes and pale, pale arms. Everything is still wet and shining in the flickering light.

 

Someone tugs on Harry’s arm and gently pulls him away from the scene, and his feet automatically follow the motion. But even after they round the corner, Harry can’t stop seeing images of the, the _corpse_. The scene is burned into his mind. He knows it’s something he’ll never forget.

 

How can he? From the dropped jaw, the sagging limbs and jutting bones to the sheet-white skin...and the blood. So much blood. There were long, savage lines on the arms...a pooling area of wetness where the knife had been driven into the stomach...lips dyed a dark, splattered crimson and it seems to have dribbled down the front......the open cavity of the throat....the way that familiar face is twisted together in terrified, agonising pain.

 

He’ll never forget it.

  


[‘Susan! Did you hear? Apparently there was a murder up in Gryffindor tower earlier! No one knows who did it.’

 

‘What? That’s horrible! Are you sure it’s not a joke? You know how callous some of the boys can be...’]

  


The Great Hall is nearly silent the next day.

 

The night before had been filled with chatter and gossip; before the body had been found. Now, a fourth of Gryffindor is absent, and the rest of the House absently stare down at their food in a sick distaste. No banter or laughter comes from them today.

 

Slytherin is just as quiet. When the news first reached them, a few of the younger boys had joked about it, saying that it would be the first of many deaths if they were lucky. They joked, that is, until some of the Aurors making rounds overheard their crude words, and took them aside. Those boys were as pale as ghosts when they returned, and haven't said a word since then. The rest of Slytherin knows better, of course, and they’ve stayed as sober as the Gryffindors ever since the news broke.

 

The loudest house, surprisingly, is Ravenclaw. Several of the students are packed together, going over notes and theories in hushed whispers. Quiet discussions about who would want a Gryffindor first-year dead, and how they’d gotten away with it. How they did it at all, even. They pool together their resources on the matter, even as the other houses glare at their insensitivity.

 

The students in yellow-trimmed robes are on guard, with the younger and weaker students already surrounded by those more well-equipped to dealing with danger. It’s a well-known rule that whenever there's a threat, Hufflepuffs band together and protect their own with a frightening ferocity. And when there’s been a murder this gruesome, well, it’s not a surprise to those who do know what lengths Hufflepuffs will take in treacherous times.

 

Half of the teachers are gone, talking with parents and ensuring the safety of those students not in the Great Hall,  while the other half seem to be as wary as the Hufflepuffs. Not one student misses the fact that all the professors have their wands at the ready, and that the same is true for the half-dozen Aurors lining the walls of the room.

 

Before the meal ends, Professor Dumbledore stands up in front of the entire room, his expression grim, and he speaks. Everyone listens. What else would they do?

 

‘As many of you now know, a terrible tragedy had occurred within these very walls,’ Dumbledore begins. ‘And it is my deepest regret that this news must be delivered to you. For we have lost a very wonderful and well-loved student, and it pains me to know that she was taken from us, both in such a tragic way and at such a young and tender age.’

 

He pauses, light blue eyes surveying the room carefully. The students are silent. They all know what words he is about to say, yes, but that won’t make hearing them any easier.

 

‘It is with a heavy heart that I announce to you all the loss of Miss Ginevra Weasley,’ his gaze flickers over to the Gryffindor table, as do the eyes of every other person in the room. ‘She will be missed.’

 

Then someone sobs loudly, and the spell of silence is broken. The students all start murmuring and talking among themselves, despite the fact that their Headmaster has not finished speaking. But they are all young, lost and terrified, and very few of them have been in a similar experience before. Professor Dumbledore understands this, and gives them a moment to themselves.

 

After all, they’ll be unnerved by the fact that the killer currently walks free and unidentified, and it is best to let them dwell in the bliss of ignorance—if only for a moment or so longer.

  


_[‘No!_ Not my little girl! Not my Ginevra! Tell me it’s not true, Arthur...please—it can’t be true! Where's my baby? _I want to see my baby!’]_

  


Harry doesn’t quite know what to do anymore. Suddenly life has become a whole lot more complicated and depressing than before. Just a few days ago, he’d been laughing with Ron and Hermione about homework and their adventures from last year. A few days ago the Weasley twins had gotten detention for setting off Dungbombs in the corridor and Percy had been scolding them when they returned half past midnight. Just a few days ago, a quiet girl with bright red hair had been shyly and worriedly glancing around corners, and Harry hadn’t thought twice about it.

 

Ron hasn't smiled or laughed since then, and it’s all Harry can do to keep him company. He’s lost count of how many times he and Hermione have lost to their friend at chess these past few hours. It's the only thing they can think of that isn't homework or dangerous. So far, it seems as though Ron is channeling all of his emotions into beating them at each and every game. Harry understands; none of them are particularly great at dealing with grief, and he isn't one to judge.

 

The twins look so lost over in the corner of the Common Room—they keep going to make a joke, but then falter half-way through each time. Percy hasn’t said a word since he talked to the adults and told them about everything; his jaw is clenched in angry frustration, and Harry'd seen him in the library earlier, hidden behind piles and piles of books and parchment. He doesn't know what the Prefect is researching—he hopes it’s useful.

 

Normally, the Weasley family all would’ve gone home, but Mrs Weasley had had what Harry understood to be some sort of heart attack, and had to have been rushed to St Mungo’s Hospital. She was going to be fine, apparently, but it was still frightening. Harry hadn’t known until then that people can literally die of a broken heart. The rest of them will leave soon, probably tomorrow, and none of them know for sure just how long. It's for the best, Harry reasons to himself, so that they have a proper chance to mourn and take comfort in each others' presence.

 

But he's also scared—what if Ron decides not to come back? Hermione offhandedly mentions that none of the _other_ Wizarding schools were as safe as Hogwarts and it was strange that something had happened at all, but Harry's struck by the realisation that there are _other_ Wizarding schools in the first place. It makes sense, yes, but the fact still remains that Ron can leave, and then it would just be him and Hermione. Harry doesn't want that—as selfish as it is for him to think that.

 

Ron had been his first friend his own age—the first person to treat him fairly and with kindness at all, asides from Hagrid.

 

And it hurts Harry that he might have to say goodbye.

 

Harry watches in silence as Hermione's king is corralled into a corner and checkmated, and Ron's queen smashes it into rubble once again. Hermione scowls. Somehow she hasn't noticed that Ron's been using the same strategy for the past three games against her, and when Ron glances up at Harry, he offers the redhead a soft and knowing smile. Harry isn't great at chess, but he, at least, can recognise a pattern when it’s set up right in front of him.

 

Hermione stands up, her face a mixture of frustration and defeat. Harry goes to trade seats with her, as they have for the last two hours whenever a game was finished. Very few words have been spoken, but Ron doesn't want to speak, and Harry knows not to push. Instead, he settles down into the Gryffindor armchair and watches as the chess pieces slowly glue themselves back together.

 

‘You want me to be black or white this time?’ Harry asks, and the Black King shoves its own arm back into its socket.

 

Without saying a word, Ron spins the board around so he keeps the black side to himself. With a wary stare down at the game, Harry steels himself, and prepares to be defeated once more. He moves a pawn forward two spaces, and the game begins.

  


['What do you mean, you haven't found anything?! My student is _dead,_ _an’ it's supposed tae be yer job—!_ ’

 

'—please calm down, Professor! This is a horrible situation, and I understand what you're going through right now. We're doing everything we can at the moment, but this is both a difficult and delicate situation...if worse comes to worse, we'll send the students home until the killer is caught...’]

  


Hermione is absolutely certain that something is amiss.

 

There’s been a murder—a particularly violent one, at that—and that alone is enough to set her on edge. But there's another thing that's making her jump at small sounds and check behind her when she’s walking alone.

 

And it has to do with that dreadful message.

 

She—thankfully—wasn’t one of the students who’d been present when Ginny's body was found. Rather, she had been waiting in the girl's dorm room, per Ginny’s own request.

 

The redhead had been acting strange—well, stranger than usual—and so when Hermione had received a letter that evening requesting to talk, her curiosity had been piqued. She had thought it might have something to do with the younger girl's hopeless crush on Harry, but she wasn't sure.

 

Now, Hermione wishes she had paid more attention to the youngest Weasley, but there’s nothing left but a wrinkled parchment that she holds loosely between her fingers and the question of whether she should give it to a professor or not.

 

_Hermione,_

 

_I know we don't really talk much, but I have something I need to talk to you about. It's important, and I don't think I can trust anyone else with it. Please meet me in my room during dinner. Please stay safe._

 

_Ginny W_

 

Hermione had written that last line off as a casual gesture of goodwill—like wishing someone a good day or some extra luck. But now, circumstances as they are, she can't help but wonder if there was more to it than that. She shifts nervously, feet hesitant as to whether she should continue to the door or not. If she shows this to McGonagall, it might help catch the killer...or it could make Hermione both a suspect and a target, depending on who McGonagall tells.

 

As much as she hates the idea, the possibility of the killer being a teacher is _there_ , and not completely ridiculous. Not many students are competent enough to do _half_ as much damage as the rumours suggest, and while it wouldn't take much to incapacitate a first-year, it takes a lot of power to cast an Unforgivable. If a teacher is the killer and they discover Hermione may have talked to Ginny before her death, then they might presume she knows something she doesn't, and target her next. That, or they could try and turn her into a scapegoat. Either of those options are unacceptable to her.

 

Decision made, Hermione takes a deep breath and turns around with a slight shake of her head. She needs to clear her head—she needs to think. This whole event has been awful, and she _should_ rest.

 

(She won't.)

 

Her footsteps echo throughout the stone hallway, and she's struck by how empty they are; curfew isn't for another few hours. The torches cast warm light across everything, at least, and scatter the shadows into fragments. As she nears the corner at the top of the stairs, the sound of a leaky faucet reaches her ears and the faint taste of brimstone in the air dances across the top of her tongue.

 

Ginny—sweet, shy Ginny—had been being tortured and murdered for _hours_ while Hermione was sitting in Gryffindor Tower safe and sound. It isn't right, and Hermione _loathes_ it when something isn't right. Right and wrong exist for a reason—to balance each other out, So when someone does something evil, well. Justice must be served.

 

Besides, an eye for an eye _is_ fair, isn't it?

  


['Just, stay safe mate—I don't want to lose either of you, too.’’

 

‘Well, the same goes for you. Stay safe. We'll write you letters as often as we can—and we’ll keep you updated on whatever happens. I promise.’

 

‘And don't forget to study, Ron! I don't want you to fall behind, and I know you’re good enough to try outside school. Percy would be glad to help, I'm sure, if you'd prefer...’]

  


Hogwarts without Ron feels _wrong_ , and Harry doesn't know how to fix it.

 

He supposes it makes sense that something at the magical school finally goes wrong—well, besides Voldemort almost stealing the Philosopher's stone last year. It’s a miracle that there are only a dozen or so people who hate him, rather than having the entire school loath his very existence like they did back with the Dursleys. So, quite naturally, Harry has been waiting for the other foot to drop—even without Dobby the house-elf's odd warning during the summer—for quite some time now.

 

But for Ginny to _die_ ? For Ron's family to face a crisis that no one should ever have to face? That was worse than anything Harry had even _imagined,_ and that thought doesn't help ease the sick knot in his stomach. Not at all.

 

The image of her hanging from the sconce, blood-soaked and drained while her toes hover inches above the floor...it continues to suffocate his mind like an infestation. He can't close his eyes without thinking of her, and he wishes he'd stop seeing her like _that_.

 

(How had she looked when she was alive, again?)

 

Harry doesn't know where Hermione's gone off to now. Probably the library; she's been hiding away behind stacks of books and parchment reminiscent of what Percy had been doing before he headed home. Harry wonders if they're the same books or not. He’d bet a hefty sum they are.

 

The Great Hall has gone back to a relatively normal volume. But the discussions all still nervously revolve around Ginny's death, and the terrifying fact that no-one's caught the killer yet. Several dozen students have already been pulled out of Hogwarts by terrified parents. Most of the students travel in groups of five or six—none of them wanting to be the next corpse found dangling from a wall.

 

'H-hey Harry,’ Neville greets. 'How do you think you did in Defence today? I don’t think I did very well...’

 

Harry wrinkles his nose. ‘Lockhart’s an idiot. If you think about it, the only _half-useful_ thing he did today was have us write a paragraph about how he defeated the Wagga Wagga Werewolf. I wouldn't worry about it if I were you, Neville.’

 

Neville's cheeks take on a bit of red in embarrassment. His eyes dart down to stare at his half-eaten plate, and Harry has to make sure he doesn't smile at his friend’s awkward shyness.

 

'Ah, good point. Sorry. I should've realised.’

 

'You don't need to apologise for everything,’ Harry says, partially because he means it, and partially because it's a reflex after spending a week in the boy's company.

 

He hadn't noticed how anxious Neville is until he was really Harry's only company, but now that he has noticed, well, it's hard to forget when you're being constantly reminded of it.

 

‘Sorry—I forget,' Neville replies, blushing. After a moment, his brow wrinkles in frustration. Harry can just _see_ how much effort it's taking for the other boy to not apologise for apologising, and decides to take pity on him.

 

‘Want to help me try and force Hermione to eat something?’ He asks with a hesitant smile. Neville's eyes fly back up to Harry just as he begins to fill a plate with some sort of chicken curry. ‘I didn’t see her at lunch, so I reckon she’s positively starved by now.’

 

‘Yeah...’ Neville, pushes his own empty plate to the side a bit, and stands. ‘I mean, if you’re fine with me tagging along, I guess.’

 

Harry likes Neville, but his self-deprecation does get to be a bit repetitive over time. And it’s only gotten worse since... He shakes his head in slight exasperation. He misses Ron already.

 

‘I wouldn’t have invited you if I didn’t want your company, Neville.’ He hands him a small collection of cutlery. ‘Let’s get going, shall we?’

 

Together, the two boys exit the Great Hall. They’re both unaware of the malice-filled eyes that follow their small forms as they leave, but Harry does feel a slight shiver creep down his back. He swallows, and keeps walking.

  


[‘...and Percy, I was wondering if—once you’ve gone home—I could continue your research until you get back. I am, as you know, rather good at this sort of thing, and I want...I want to avenge Ginny. I want to bring her justice. What happened to her was awful and cruel and, and I want to make things _right_ —at least, as much as I can. You understand...don’t you?’]

  


Penelope Clearwater, Sixth Year Prefect of Ravenclaw, doesn't quite know what to think of her current situation. Well, other than that it's a huge mess, and that she can't help but be completely terrified.

 

The professors and Aurors are all in shambles, scrambling to ensure that the students are safe and not completely in a panic, despite the fact that none of them know how it happened, or—more importantly—how to prevent it from happening again. She'd barely had a chance to speak to Percy at all before he went home to mourn. And, to make worse matters even worse, Penelope is positive that she’s gained a stalker.

 

She isn't sure what to do about any of these problems.

 

The Prefects are privy to the teachers’ more vulnerable sides. They are, after all, considered pseudo-authority figures. But unfortunately, the fact that they are also mere teenagers is also easily forgotten in times of stress. Hogwarts is already severely understaffed, and this added situation shoves even _more_ paperwork and chaos atop the hundreds of essays, tests, and projects the teachers need to grade nearly every night. Penelope has even seen a petition for a _time-turner_ amidst Professor Flitwick's hundreds of papers! She suspects he won’t get any favours from the Ministry, regardless of how much effort he put towards the school each year; they’re more than a tad bit racist.

Unfortunately for Penelope, this much stress on the teachers means that other matters—such as her unwanted shadow—are easily skipped over or forgotten, and she is left staring down the corridor where she could've _sworn_ her stalker was a few seconds ago.

 

It's a Gryffindor, she knows, and a young one at that. She caught sight of the red-lined robes and shorter silhouette two nights ago, but whenever Penelope tries to recall what he looks like in any detail—if it even _is_ a he—she simply can't remember. _That’s_ what's turning her round the twist. As far as she knows, there aren't any spells taught in the current curriculum that can do that. Perhaps it's a variant of the Disillusionment Charm? Or is it something more sinister? Something more...dark?

 

Regardless, Penelope can only shiver as she moves through the empty halls, alone. She used to _love_ going out on patrol, but now every creaking suit of armor and whispering portrait sends her heart racing.

 

Her brown pair of flats tap lightly against the stone. With Percy gone, there's a Prefect left without a partner each night, and tonight she's drew the short straw. She hates it. Penelope clenches her wand in her left hand, tucks a straw strand of blonde hair behind her ear with her right and then presses her lips together. Because, in all honesty, while she isn't _really_ scared of some Gryffindor child, she _is_ scared of whomever taught him such advanced and powerful magic.

 

A crash from behind makes her jump. Metal slams together against metal and falls on to ancient stone. Penelope spins around, and her robes curl around her legs as arenalin rushes through her veins.

 

But there's nothing there, and she doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.

 

(There's been a murder, and it's the middle of the night and she's _alone_ and—)

 

...but she's just being silly. After all, it's past midnight! Why would anyone be following her _now_ when she's been patrolling for hours already? She’s overreacting, she knows. Penelope huffs, and forces herself to relax just a little. It's fine. Everything will be fine.

 

‘Peeves, I _swear_ , if that's you causing any mischief,’ she begins loudly, 'then I'll have you know the Baron will hear about it sooner than you can say “Pumpkin Juice”. Do you understand me?’

 

She stands there a moment, and waits for the poltergeist to appear. He never was a quiet thing. But the hallway stays vacant of everything save for the sleeping portraits. None of the doors open, and nothing floats from around the corner from which the noise came.

 

Time seems to hold still, like Hogwarts herself is holding her breath, and Penelope doesn't know _why_.

 

But she has a duty to keep order in this ancient castle, and Clearwaters always follow through with their promises. She strides forward, intent on doing just that. She ignores the whispers in the back of her mind that are telling her to _turn_ _around before you regret it_.

 

She has a job to do.

  


[‘Hey Audrey, do you know if Penelope had patrol last night? I didn't see her come in.’

 

'Well, so I'd presume so, seeing as she didn't have it the night before...I bet she's just off to a late start today because of it, the lazy lass.’

 

‘But that’s the thing—she was gone by the time I woke up this morning...’]

  


Hermione slams her pile of books down on the library table, making Harry flinch and Neville nearly fall out of his seat. He’s still not used to her naturally loud behaviour, and just being in her presence makes his heart beat twice as fast in fright.

 

‘I think I've found something,’ she begins, and lifts the top book off of the stack to show them. It’s a large, ancient-looking thing, with an intricate red clasp that seems to be the only thing holding the worn pages together. Neville can’t help but wonder if she just carries those other books around for fun or if she’s actually read them all. He’d ask Harry, but the other boy has been bothered enough today.

 

‘ _The 17th Hogwarts Inventory of Mysterious and Malnormal Mishaps, Misfortunes and Marvels,’_ Harry reads aloud, eyes squinting through his glasses. ‘What did you find in _this_?’

 

Hermione straightens her posture just a little bit, and Neville has already been around enough to know this is what she looks like when she is about to start her newest lecture. He shifts in his seat uncomfortably. He shouldn’t be here—he knows he’s not Ron. But it would also be rude to leave right when she’s about to start talking...

 

‘Well, I was going through Hogwarts’ old legends as an extra credit project for Professor Binns. I was looking through _this_ lovely book and found this one chapter...’

 

She opens the book to a bookmarked page while Neville momentarily ponders whether Binns would let him do an extra credit assignment, too. His grade rather needs it. 

 

On the page in front of them is a sketch of what looks to be some sort of knife. It sorta reminds him of his own potions knife, but that might just have been because of the blood it’s covered in; he really needs to stop slicing his own fingers up on accident. There’s been enough blood in his life as of late. (He swallows, and pushes the thoughts of a pale-faced girl covered in a similar colour  out of his mind. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t think about that anymore, and he intends to keep that promise.)

 

‘...and it’s all about different artifacts that have all been here in Hogwarts at some point or another. This one, here, is about a cursed athame that belonged to a witch named Sisuile that followed the Goddess Hecate—but that’s not the important bit.’ She taps her fingernail against the large wall of old text that accompanies the illustration. ‘It says here that she used it in ancient rituals until something went wrong, and it became possessed by some sort a violent shade. She and the others in her village tried to exorcise the spirit, as it became bloodthirsty and violent. But while the soul moved on, the blade stayed cursed.’

 

‘What does this have to do with anything?’ Harry asks, leaning forwards. Neville mirrors his movements, equally curious as to where this story was going. Hermione, however, presses her lips together in a disapproving frown incredibly reminiscent of Professor McGonagall.

 

‘I was _just_ getting to that, if you’d learn to be _patient_.’ She chastises, though Harry doesn’t look very repentant and only nods back towards the book, urging her to continue. Hermione continues. ‘Now, cursed objects are all very unique in nature. Some have very specific requirements, while others develop their own distinct personalities. It says here that Sisuile’s Athame, or as it’s commonly remembered, Hecate’s Blade, kept the malignant personality of the excised spirit—along with its murderous intentions. It forces whoever wields the knife to commit a murder on the last day of the “waning” moon, whether or not that possessed person wants to.’

 

Neville notices that his hands are shaking, and moves them off of the table to instead grip the edge of his seat.

 

‘So you think that this knife... _possessed_ someone and made them...’ Harry trails off, voice wavering. His eyes unfocus for a moment, before he jolts himself back into the present and blinks rapidly. ‘Why would you think that this is what happened, Hermione?’

 

There wouldn’t really be a reason for her to think that, unless...

 

‘The, the curse on the athame, as far as I can tell, brings out the absolute _worse_ in people, and encourages them to t-torture and extend the suffering as long as possible,’ Hermione stutters out. ‘But in the end, it forces them to slit the victim’s throat and hang their body by their wrists in order to mimic...’

 

She keeps talking, something about sacrifices and death penalties, but Neville attention is no longer on her.

Memories of that _terrible_ night rise up from the depths of his mind where he’d buried them. Ugly images of Ginny covered in cuts and bruises, strung up and posed like one of Gran’s animals up on the mantle. Her throat folding in on itself. Her eyes so bloodshot that it looks as though she’d been crying tears of blood, and the lines that had been cut into her skin don’t help the picture at all and–

 

‘Neville? Are you alright?’ Harry is shaking his shoulder gently, a look of concern painted on his face. ‘Should I go get a teacher?’

 

Neville shakes his head and tries to ignore the twitching of his fingers and how tight his throat is right now.

 

‘You...you don’t need to do that. You and Hermione can keep talking, sorry, and I’ll go see if Madam Pomfrey...see if she has something that’ll help with, um, headaches. I’ve, er, been having them a lot lately. Sorry.’

 

Harry’s eyebrows furrow for a moment, a look Neville doesn’t feel up to deciphering on his face, before he relaxes and nods, albeit hesitantly. Hermione opens her mouth.

 

‘I think you should ask her for a Calming Drought, too, Neville. You’re looking a bit peaky. And you should probably go to bed early—I always that helps me whenever _I_ have a migraine.’

 

Neville nods and clumsily gathers his things while Hermione continues to prattle on about her theory to Harry. She’s a nice girl and means well, he knows, but right now he’s rather close to getting sick all over the library books and she isn’t helping much in that regard.

 

There's a lapse in his memory as time blurs together after Neville says his goodbyes, and next thing he knows he’s halfway through the castle. Actually. He’s not sure where he is. Did he go up or down that flight of stairs? He can’t remember.

...that’s not usually a good sign. Not that there’ve been a lot of good signs in the first place, but that’s beside the point.

 

He trudges on, and takes the next turn he comes across. The halls here are dirtier than the rest of the school, part of him notes idly, and the lights are dull and flickering. It’s even more surprising—considering how obsessive Filch can be about how clean everything is—that there seems to be mud splattered messily around everywhere.  Especially considering this is on the second floor, and nowhere _near_ a door that leads outside.

 

(Was it even raining?)

 

Neville swallows, and there’s this _horrible_ feeling in his stomach that something isn’t right. That everything isn’t right. That the lighting is too dim and the halls too empty and the mud too _red_ for everything to be “right”.

 

And really, when he trips, and his bag flies open and his books tumble out, he isn’t _that_ surprised when half of his things roll and slide and fall into an adjacent room. It’s just his luck to be the girl’s bathroom, now, isn’t it?

 

(There’s even _more_ mud here, too, and it looks even redder in these old lights.)

 

He kneels down and begins to put his books and quills and parchment sheets away, hands and knees pressed against the floor. He tries to ignore how slippery the mud is, how it seems to just stick to him. For some reason, his hand trembles as he picks up the last black notebook, now soaked, though he really isn’t paying that much attention.

 

Because something smells in here, and it’s _awful_. So awful he’s not sure if he can even _breathe_ right just yet. It chokes his lungs and he gasps while his hand encloses around the remaining quill.

 

Items retrieved, Neville stands up and heads over to the sink; he’s not very adept at any cleaning charms, unfortunately, but Gran _will_ kill him if he's ruined his robes, he just knows it, and he’s already here, so might as well.

 

The water is cold, which is strange seeing as magic usually means turning the hot water faucet on conjures _hot_ water, but he figures it has something to do with the apparent age of, well, this entire area. The faucets themselves are rust-covered and moldy, if a bit slippery for some reason. The large mirror that covers the wall has so many layers of dirt, grime and dust that Neville doubts that even his family’s house-elf would be able to clean it. He shivers in the cold. It all still smells off.

 

Something isn’t right in here, but Neville doesn’t realise _exactly_ what is wrong until he looks into the mirror and sees the bodies hanging half inside some of the stalls.

  


[Papa,

You’ve probably already gotten a letter from the school by now, but I’m coming home early—Hogwarts is closing until after the winter break. I’m not quite sure why. They’re saying it’s due to some form of poisonous and venomous mold, but I know better! Ginny was murdered, Papa, remember? The Weasley girl Mummy used to bring over to play me with sometimes? Well, I think she might have discovered something she shouldn’t have regarding the Medusoid Toximblie Cabal’s interference with the 1877 Quidditch World Cup, and so they might have sent someone to keep her quiet. But she must have told someone, I think, or they wouldn’t have closed the school...’]

  


Hermione is furious with herself, Harry can tell. He doesn’t know if it’s because she guessed wrong or because more people are dead _or_ the fact that they’re going home, but he’s pretty sure it’s all three.

  
Neville was the one to find the bodies again, and apparently hasn’t said more than a few sentences to anyone since then. Harry spent several hours with him in the Infirmary right afterwards, and it mostly just seems to be shock that’s keeping him silent. Harry hopes he’ll be alright; Merlin knows they’ve all seen too much for anyone their age.

 

Harry’s quick to send a letter to Ron, telling him all he knows about the incident.

 

Officially, there’s some sort of carnivorous/venomous/poisonous mold that’s been growing in the pipes that will take months to clear out, as it’s apparently toxic to House-Elves as well as people. Unofficially, someone’s killed a total of four students and a ghost. No one’s sure how that last bit happened—it’s never happened before—and all Harry knows is that some ministry officials came in and declared the matter “classified”, and that the students will be leaving the next day.

 

Ron’s reply comes almost immediately, and Harry’s given a short summary of the Unspeakables and Department of Mysteries. A _very_ short summary. He also informs Harry that Ginny’s funeral will be taking place that evening; Harry doesn’t quite know how to respond to that. He does the best he can. There isn’t much small talk besides that, for understandable reasons, and they promise to message each other again soon. Ron says not to go looking for trouble and to watch out. Harry wishes him luck and tells him to stay safe in return.

 

By the time night falls—the last night he’ll spend here until after Christmas, which makes Harry’s heart ache—Harry no longer has anyone to talk to or anything to do. Neville is still in the Hospital Wing, hopefully sleeping off some of the trauma, and Hermione has secluded herself with as many books as possible up in the Gryffindor Dorms. Harry doesn’t quite knows what she intends to do with her limited number of hours here with all of those books; she can’t _possibly_ read them all, and much less do anything with whatever she reads. But the futility of it doesn’t matter to him quite so much as the fact that she’s doing it _alone_.

 

Because, as selfish as it is, Harry wants to spend every last second he can with his few friends. He won’t just let them vanish—can’t just let them forget him. And they will; everyone always does, when he goes back to the Dursleys’. His relatives hadn’t wanted to let him leave at all earlier this year, and they’re even less likely to let him return when he comes back early. They might just shunt him away into his old cupboard and forget about him until summer.

If they remember to let him out at all.

 

Harry shivers where he sits on his bed. He can’t let that happen, he  _can't_ , but he doesn’t know how.

 

Maybe he can just...not go back to the Dursleys’ house. Just rent a room at the Leaky Cauldron for a couple months...

 

No. He can’t get away with that—especially not with Voldemort still out there. Quirrell might be dead, but Voldemort and his followers certainly aren’t. And although none of these deaths have been linked back to the Death Eaters, it’s still a harsh reminder that the Wizarding World isn’t all sunshine and unicorns. There _are_ people who kill unicorns and young students and want Harry Potter just as cold and dead as them.

 

The smartest decision, he figures, is to ask Hermione for advice. But none of the Gryffindors are allowed to leave the Tower, and Hermione won’t leave her dorm. He’ll (hopefully) see her tomorrow on the Hogwarts Express, but until then, Harry is once again left with no plan of action.

 

But he can’t just sit around and wait. Well, he can, but he hates just sitting around, pretending to sleep until morning comes and they leave.

He can stay, or he can go and do something.

 

He chooses to do something.

 

What that something _is_ isn’t quite something he’s determined yet, but it’s a simple-enough task to slip on his father’s Invisibility Cloak and exit the Common Room.

 

It...only occurs to him after the empty Fat Lady’s Portrait has closed behind him that this might not be the wisest thing to do in this situation.

  


[‘Mr Longbottom? _Mr Longbottom?_ You did _not_ sneak out on me, did you? If you’re hiding, I demand you come out at once...Oh! Albus. You startled me...You didn’t see young Neville Longbottom just exit here, did you?’

 

‘I’m afraid not, Poppy. Was he well enough to walk last you saw him?’

 

‘He walked in here on his own, and he’s surely well enough to walk out...But, I haven’t seen him since I did my routine midnight check three _hours_ ago...Albus, what if—?’

 

‘—let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It’ll take just a moment to ask Minerva if he’s returned to his dorm...’

 

‘And if he hasn’t?’

 

‘...Then we will have to proceed from there.’]

  


Hermione’s eyes are just beginning to flutter shut when the door opens and the light are magicked back on—quite rudely, too, if she might add. The other girls moan in varying amounts of annoyance and displeasure, and Hermione feels validated in her sudden loathing of this intruder. This was _much_ earlier than usual, but when the Prefect’s loud and authoritative voice echoes through the room, whatever sleep might have been gathering in Hermione’s eyes is ignored and wiped away.

 

‘Get _up_ , girls! Get up! UP! There’s been _four_ more disappearances in the last six hours, and we’re making sure everyone else is accounted for,’ she announces, and even exhausted and sleep-deprived Hermione can tell that the older girl is very near terrified. ‘After, you’ll be escorted onto the Hogwarts Express the very _moment_ it arrives. Don’t worry about changing clothes or gathering your things—it’ll all be taken care of...’

 

She continues to talk, but for once Hermione doesn’t pay attention.

 

Four more people have gone missing? _Four?_ You can’t just say things like that and expect a reasonable, logical response!

 

Her arms and legs begin to move of what’s practically their own accord as she starts to panic internally.

 

Who was doing this? Who could kill five people? And for another four to be missing...

 

(Ginny Weasley, Colin Creevey, Penelope Clearwater, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Myrtle Warren. What did they have in common? Nothing that Hermione could think of off the top of her head. There were no obvious ties between their years, sex, house, blood status, sexuality, race—anything! One of them hadn’t even been alive at the time of her _second_ death! Think, Hermione. _Think!_ )

(What can kill a ghost?)

 

Shaking herself out of her slight stupor, she pushes Parvati slightly out of the way so she can catch the Prefect before she leaves.

 

‘Excuse me, Astris?’ Hermione’s voice is surprisingly hoarse. Well, considering she’d stayed up the entire night reading, maybe it isn’t so surprising... ‘Do you know who went missing?’

 

The Prefect bites her lip, brows furrowed in some emotion Hermione can’t yet place.

 

‘I...probably shouldn’t tell you. I don’t want to create anymore undue panic...’

 

Hermione somehow—somehow—manages to resist the urge to scowl. This was the sort of information she could use!

‘If you tell us who’s missing, we’ll be able to notify the professors right away if anyone sees them,’ Hermione points out in as confident a tone as she can. Luckily for her, Astris’ tongue is quick to loosen before she leaves to help wake the next year of girls.

 

(Ginny Weasley, Colin Creevey, Penelope Clearwater, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Myrtle Warren. Dead. Neville Longbottom, Marietta Edgecombe, Gemma Farley, Alice Tolipan. Missing.)

 

Hermione can’t think of anything that fits them together, besides the fact that they’re all students. Her thoughts are especially scattered now, because she _knows_ Neville, and now he’s gone missing after seeing _both_ of the murder scenes and—and—and she isn’t quite sure what to do with this information anymore.

 

(Did she ever really have an idea in the first place?)

 

Numb and lost in her thoughts, Hermione lets herself be ushered out into the Common Room, and then out into the Great Hall.

 

She thinks and thinks and thinks. Her name is called at one point, to which Hermione replies that, yes, she is still here and mostly awake and completely alive, and then she goes back to thinking. As more students arrive and flock towards the front, Hermione gets pushed further and further away from her housemates.

 

It’s only when she’s brushing up against one of the stone walls that she notices the tables have all been removed from the room. But it’s still crowded—there aren’t five consecutive feet of wall where there isn’t a Prefect, Auror or Faculty member standing with their wand at the ready. If Hermione thought they’d been serious when Ginny had turned up dead, she’d been mistaken.

 

Her thoughts pause—is that an Unspeakable talking to Professor Dumbledore? She’d thought they’d all left. But no, there one is; saying something to Dumbledore behind swaths of fabric and magical layers of cloth. Trying not to look inconspicuous, Hermione drifts over to where they’re talking. They...aren’t being very discrete with their conversation.

 

‘...just let my team do a thorough sweep of the castle, Headmaster. It shouldn’t take more than a few hours.’

 

Dumbledore has a pensive look on his usually cheerful face, and he seems to choose his next words with care.

 

‘Last time the Department of Mysteries took over a murder investigation, twelve people and a dragon died. Half of whom weren't at the scene to begin with.’

 

Hermione’s blood rushes out of her head and into her fingertips and toes. _Twelve_? What sort of things where they doing to get _twelve people_ killed? Not to mention the dragon—which, aren’t those endangered? When did this happen? Why hasn’t she heard of this before?

 

‘I admit, that was an unpleasant experience, but one that we intend to leave in the past and—’

 

‘That was January, Broderick. Not even the January of last year. No, it was this most _recent_ January. That is not something that I would consider to be “in the past”.  I’m afraid I can’t in good conscience allow you to investigate anywhere outside of the immediate crime scenes, and wherever else we have reason to need your assistance. Amelia is doing an excellent job with her team, and we’ll soon have an accurate count of all of the students present...’

 

Hermione would have tried to keep listening, but it was at that moment that a Hufflepuff she half-recognises casually moves in front of her view, and the other girl’s sleep-deprived complaints and gossip quickly drown out the conversation. All Hermione can do is hope her scowl isn’t too obvious when she finds Harry and tells him what she knows.

 

Speaking of...where _is_ Harry?

  


[‘Albus—the train’s arrived, but we’ve still three students unaccounted for!’

 

‘Does that mean we found one?’

 

‘Two—Miss Farley mistakenly thought now was a wise time to go and visit her paramour in the Hufflepuff dormitories, while Miss Edgecombe was suffering from an intense migraine and merely on her way to the infirmary.’

 

‘I see. Who—?’

 

‘It’s Harry Potter, Albus. His roommates say he came back up to bed, but when everyone was woken he wasn’t accounted for.’

 

‘Oh. Oh, dear.’]

  


That night—or very early morning, to be more accurate—nearly the entire student body is ushered onto the Hogwarts Express. Seats have been transformed into beds, and children quickly find their friends and bunk six to a compartment. It’s cramped, of course, but most everyone is too tired to care. They have a seven hour journey ahead of them, those who don’t have someone picking them up at Hogsmeade, and it’s been a hectic and deadly month.

 

In one tiny compartment at the far end of the train, a girl with fluffy, dark hair curls into herself as she tries not to think about what’s happened to her friends. The younger, blonde girl opposite her, in the other lowest bunk, is writing a letter to someone. Which wouldn’t be all that odd, save for the fact that the girl is using a compact mirror to write her note in mirrorscript. Above them both, there are four more girls—two of whom are asleep. The third one is crying quietly, and the fourth one engages in a futile attempt to comfort the sobbing child.

It isn’t until the fourth transfigures their beds together into one and holds the third in her arms that they both begin to dream. The blonde girl writing the letter finishes her postscript soon after, and offers the first girl a smile and a small, origami bird before she joins the others in slumber. The first girl isn’t quite sure why, but she carefully cradles the red thing delicately in her hands, oddly reminded of a failed promise and a revenge not exacted. She pretends to herself that there aren’t tears decorating her face and pillow.

 

In another compartment, two Gryffindors play exploding snap in silence, too frazzled to sleep. Over what has been an incredibly short period of time, their three roommates have vanished to places known and unknown, and now the duo take refuge with four older Hufflepuffs. Unknown to the pair, Hufflepuffs offer safety and comfort to those in need of such items, and these two tiny, vulnerable children of Hogwarts definitely fall into that category. They will be cared for and sheltered. They will be protected.

 

And yet another compartment holds boys and girls of all four houses, all merely eleven and twelve in age. They are young and durable, and rather than staying teary-eyed for long, they begin to tell each other stories—both true and false—in meagre attempts to chase the fear away. They dare each other to stay up until dawn, as children often try, but they all fall fast asleep sooner rather than later, guarded fiercely by the trained Aurors just outside each compartment.

 

Far, far away from the children on the train, the rest of the Aurors and professors continue to search diligently for any sign of the missing children.

 

It isn’t until the sun first begins to peak over the edge of the mountains that the Groundskeeper stumbles across the small, broken body of a young girl. She isn’t quite dead yet, and is rushed to the proper medical professionals immediately. Her parents kneel at her bedside and hold her delicate, bandaged hands tightly as she is lost to this world forever.

 

Morning comes and leaves, and the two remaining boys stay absent.

 

By noon, the Headmaster relents to the requests of the Department of Mysteries, who are eager to find out who—or what—did this much damage, and cloaked men and women storm the castle. Many secrets are found and plots uncovered, but there are no further indications of either children still being there. The grandmother of one of the boys demands that he be found, and threatens and rages to no avail. The school is already temporarily closed, and the Ministry is already doing everything they can/

 

But it isn’t enough.

 

It is around this time that the children on the Hogwarts Express disembark the train and reunite with their families and loved ones. Parents and children cling to each other, desperate in their joy. A certain girl with fluffy, dark hair and an origami bird tucked inside her pocket writes a letter to her red-haired friend while in the car, and she hopes he has something else to offer her. Some shred of hope that she can hold on to. He doesn’t have anything to give, however, save for his own company and assistance and support. She accepts it all the same.

 

A day turns into a week and then two. The search slows for the two boys, and even though the news is hot and fiery and demanding that they _find their children_ , nothing is found. It comes to the point where everyone accepts that they are looking for corpses rather than living boys, and whatever stray threads of hope that had lingered to this point now begin to fade.

 

Across the country, families quietly mourn the deaths of so many children, even while a few others celebrate the fall of the Boy-Who-Lived. Nevermind the fact that he was still just that—a twelve-year-old boy.

 

A month passes and then two. Neville Longbottom and Harry Potter are accepted by the entire Wizarding World as dead, despite there being no bodies to bury. Friends and family mourn one, while only friends mourn the other.

 

It is never released to the public just _how_ a ghost was killed, or how so many students went missing and dead under the watchful eyes of so many Aurors. No one asks a certain girl about a certain note she received, or a promise she's made for vengeance. No one asks a certain boy about the deaths of his sister and friend, or how he is quite willing to help a certain girl do anything in the name of justice.

 

No one asks anything. No one tells anything. At least, not unless they have a goal in mind.

  


(Hermione and Ron have a goal.)

  


[‘Hey, Hermione—check this out. The last time there was a death at Hogwarts was _fifty years ago_ , at least until all this happened. And it says they caught the bloke, too.’

 

‘Oh—really? Does it say who they caught? Or even how the victim died?’

 

‘Nah, though I bet I can find out. But take a guess at who the victim _was_.’

 

‘I’m not really in the mood for guessing...who was it?’

 

‘Some Ravenclaw girl by the name of “Myrtle Elizabeth Warren”. Or, as she we know her—’

 

 _‘Moaning Myrtle!_ Oh, you’re _brilliant_ sometimes, Ron. Have I told you that before?’

 

‘Once or twice, maybe.’’]

  


[‘The Chamber of Secrets? Never heard of it.’

 

‘That’s because _you’ve_ never read all of _Hogwarts, A History._ It talks about it a bit—here. Go on and read that little bit.’

 

‘I would, but this is so bloody _boring_. I’m falling asleep right here...’

 

‘ _Ron!’_

 

‘Fine, fine. Hand it over...Oh.’]

  


[‘You know, it’s times like these where I think it would’ve been real nice to have the chance to talk to that bloody ghost before she died. Again.’

 

‘Well, there are a _lot_ of things that would be rather nice to have that we can’t have any longer, now isn’t there?’

 

‘...’

 

‘...I’m sorry.’

 

‘Me too. I really miss them, Hermione. All of them.’]

  


[‘Hermione? What in the name of Merlin’s baggy—!’

 

‘It’s just a snake. Honestly, Ronald. I’d expected you to handle this better. Now come up off the table.’

 

‘B-but, _why?_ Why do you have a snake?’

 

‘Well, the Chamber of Secrets was made by Salazar Slytherin, wasn’t it? And I figured that we’d need a parselmouth to help us find it...’

 

‘You’re mad, sometimes—I ever tell you that?’

 

‘Once or twice, maybe.’]

  
  


[‘Why, exactly, are we searching for the Chamber, again? Especially at three in the morning?’

 

‘ _Because_ it’s our only lead, remember?’

 

‘Well, yeah, but did _you_ remember that we have a test in Double Potions tomorrow, right? And that Snape’s tests always involve you drinking your own brew?’

 

‘I don’t see how that’s a problem for _me._ You, however... well, let’s just say I _might_ visit you in the hospital wing. Maybe.’

 

‘Hermione!’

 

‘Oh, hush. Here, hold Balthazar for a second, why don’t you? My arms are getting tired.’

 

‘Aw, hell no!’]

  


[‘Huh. I wasn’t expecting the murder scene to _actually_ reveal anything else... Oh, calm down, Ron. It's as though you’ve never found a secret passageway before.’

 

‘Not one that a murderer used to get away with killing five people and a ghost! You can _see_ the dried blood _right there._ We’ll get _killed_ if we go down there ourselves!’

 

‘....good point. Let’s go get Professor McGonagall...and some Aurors.’]

  


It takes a whole year to find the location of the next body. The fact that it’s found at all is incredibly shocking, seeing as it’s found lying in the middle of the legendary Chamber of Secrets. The two children who found it are hailed as heroes and presented with awards and praise from both the school and the media. But the two children are not quite so gleeful.

 

Despite the hopes of ever finding Neville Longbottom alive having been dashed long before, it is still a heavy blow to the boy’s friends, family and teachers when his body is found.

 

The odd part, however, is that is seems he wasn’t murdered in the same manner as the other students. His body is perfectly preserved thanks to the ancient charms that had been placed in the Chamber of Secrets millennia ago, and it’s clear to anyone looking that he _wasn’t_ stabbed and strangled and hung. Rather, his face is relaxed, arms crossed over his chest. It's almost as if he’s asleep. It’s concluded that Neville was the target of a successful Killing Curse. They aren’t quite sure why he’s positioned the way he is. A sign of remorse? They aren't sure.

 

Neville’s funeral takes place seven days later, and the entire school attends. Only a few attendees notice that his father’s wand isn’t present.

  


[‘I don’t know what we can do now, Ron! We don’t have any new leads—we’ve literally spent the last _year_ following this one, and while we found Neville, there’s still _no_ sign of Harry or the killer. Which, I don’t understand! Everyone else who was killed was found in the castle—and yes, I’m counting the Chamber as part of the castle—but there’s no sign of him. Do you think the murderer buried his body, or took it off grounds? Wasn’t Tolipan found near the edge of the woods? Do you—’

 

‘Oi, breathe for a second, why don’t you. You’re gonna give yourself a heart attack if you keep this up.’

 

‘But—’

 

‘I’ve actually got an idea, too. Well, not so much an idea as a thought. Do you know if anyone ever found Harry’s Invisibility Cloak?’

 

‘Yes, actually. It was found torn to shreds in the Chamber of Secrets. It’s what you slipped on, remember?’

 

‘Of course not! I was hospitalised for a week after for memory loss— _remember?’_

 

‘Oh. I forgot about that.’

 

‘So did I, funny enough.’]

  


The deaths aren’t forgotten, but as time moves on, so do people. The youngest students only hear about it in late-night stories and gossip, while parents and teachers keep the tale in their hearts as a cautionary reminder. Those directly affected by the deaths weep and cry and mourn, but they accept.

 

The dead are dead. It does not do to dwell on dreams.

 

A certain boy and certain girl graduate from Hogwarts with no idea as to what happened to the third member of their friend group, nor do they ever bring justice to those killed.

 

They graduate never accomplishing their goals, and for the most part, they accept that. They live their lives, though not in quite the same way they would have if everyone else had lived.

  


[‘How about...Séverine for a girl?’

 

‘Ew, no! What sorta name is that?’

 

‘French! I met a lovely elderly woman by that name while traveling with my parents last year...’

 

‘ _No_ , Hermione. It sounds like Severus. As in _Severus Snape._ ’

 

‘Oh—! How did I miss _that?_ Fine. You give one.’

 

‘Er, um...Alice?’

 

‘It’s already on the list—we put it there last week. How about Hugo for a boy?'

 

‘I’ve got a third cousin named Hugo.’

 

‘So?’

 

‘He’s not—maybe if he hadn’t made such a fool of himself last year at Luna’s wedding. And, well...I was wondering if we could consider—just maybe—Harry?’

 

‘Oh, _Ron...’_ ]

  


[‘Hermione, I don’t _care_ that you can’t remember where you put the bloody blanket—you are _going into labour right now_ and I _really_ don’t think—’

 

‘Shut _up_ and find it! I spent three bloody months knitting the damn thing and I’ll be buggered before—oh! Owwhh!’

 

‘And _that’_ s your third contraction in seven minutes. We’re going—I’ll make sure you have the blanket by the time the baby’s here, alright?’

 

‘You are _not_ leaving my side, Weasley—!’

 

‘Weasley-Granger, and no, I won’t. I’ll hold your hand the entire bloody time if you want me to! I’m sure Mum will be glad to go home and get the bloody thing. Now let’s _go_ before you end up giving birth right here in the bloody graveyard...’]

  


[Are you sure you want to go back to work? I’ve got nothing against her staying with Mum and Dad during the day, but you...you almost _died,_ love...’

 

‘I know. But I’ve thought about it, and I really think it’s best if I rejoin the force. Yes, I’ll probably stick with paperwork for a month or two, but evil isn’t going to catch itself. We both know that, and it’s dangerous for only one of us to be out there at a time. We’re a team, aren’t we? That’s what we both said when we took this vow.’]

  


 

‘We have a cold case that we’re opening back up again,’ Shacklebolt announces to them as they sit down. ‘We need you to be in charge of it.’

 

Ron blinks twice, partially in shock and partially to wake himself back up. It’s early enough that he’s not quite free from the land of dreams yet, though the adrenalin from the emergency call-in definitely helps him along towards reality.

 

‘Really? What for? We don’t usually open old cases,’ Ron points out, ‘And we’re almost never assigned to them. What’s different about this one?’

 

‘Well, if you’d _listen_ maybe we’d actually be able to find out—seeing as that’s what he’s probably about to tell us.’ In the chair next to him, his wife crosses her legs and sips her coffee. How or when she had the time to make coffee, he isn’t quite sure, seeing as she got out of bed _after_ him, and it’s only been about five minutes since he did. Ron swallows. She’s a scary woman even when she doesn’t mean to be. A lovely witch, yes, but scary.

 

‘Er, yeah. Good point.’ He then decides to shut up so Shacklebolt can talk.

 

But instead of talking, the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement silently summons a thick, purple folder from another room and snatches it from the air with a single, fluid movement. _Wow—Kingsley could’ve been a pro-Seeker with that sorta skill_ , Ron muses to himself.

 

Hermione is handed the folder, and she holds it between herself and him while she opens it. Their breathing hitches at the same time.

 

Ron is the first to speak, and even _he_ can tell his voice is both strained and a bit loud.

 

‘Wait, _this_ case? But—?’

 

Hermione’s hand squeezes his own, and he shuts his mouth immediately. He looks over to his left; her face has fallen into an old, neutral expression, with dark eyes and pursed lips. He hasn’t seen her like this in a long, long time, and for her to wear it again is jarring to him.

 

‘How many deaths have there been?’

 

Her voice is hollow and cold, and he wants to pull her close—wants to reassure her that everything will be alright. He wants to tell her that this is just a cruel mistake and a terrible lie. But he knows it doesn’t work that way. He knows that’s not the truth.

 

‘Two. Both found about fifteen minutes ago. So far the _modus operandi_ matches the first murder—almost identically _._ ’ Shacklebolt looks pained at the statement, and Ron sympathises easily. ‘You’d be out on the scene right now, but everyone knows this case is your specialty; it was decided it’d be best if you both oversaw the operations.’

 

Ron balks.

 

‘Decided? By _who?_ If anything, we _shouldn’t_ be on this case ‘cause of conflict of—’

 

‘We’ll get right on it, Kingsley.’

 

Hermione’s interruption isn’t unexpected, but Ron huffs indignantly all the same. Shacklebolt seems to think this is an acceptable answer, despite their obvious disagreements, and stands up, towering over them in a regal sort of way. Ron has the sneaking suspicion that if anyone’s going to win this next election, it’s going to be Kingsley.

 

‘Good. I expect you both to be at the Hogwarts gates in five minutes,’ Shacklebolt says. ‘The school is on lock-down as of right now, per protocol, and the Board of Governors will be holding an emergency meeting in half an hour. I’m in charge of organising the evacuation of the students and ensuring everyone’s safety, so everything else will be up to you.’

 

He then exits the room, leaving Ron and Hermione alone. Their hands are still interlocked tightly, and Ron can feel her trembling even as she grips his fingers tightly.

 

‘Why, Ron?’ She asks him after a moment of shared silence. ‘Why again? Why _now_? It’s been, what, fifteen years? I thought—I thought...’

 

‘We thought this was in the past,’ Ron finishes for her. ‘We thought this was behind us.’

 

Hermione twists slightly and rests her head on his shoulder.

 

‘But it’s not Ron. It’s _not_.’

 

She takes a shaky breath and sniffles slightly. Ron settles his second hand over hers, rubbing soothing circular motions into her skin with his thumb. After what can’t be more than a minute, Ron steels himself and stands up; Hermione follows soon after.

 

‘Let’s go, love,’ Ron murmurs, tugging her hand slightly. ‘It’s time to go out and finally put this murderer behind bars. We need to do this—it's been long enough.’

 

But Hermione doesn’t follow his movements, and Ron knows she’s thinking about their young, adventurous friend with green eyes. He knows she’s thinking of acquaintances who should be here, with them, instead of six feet underground. He knows she’s thinking of an aged, crumpled note that sits inside the bottom drawer of her bedside table. He knows she’s thinking about a half-forgotten promise. About his dead sister with her fiery red hair and personality.

 

‘Besides,’ he adds. ‘What's the saying...“Vengeance is best served cold”, or something, yeah? I'd say it's _freezing_ right now.’

 

At that, Hermione squeezes his hand tightly, and she looks up. Her jaw is set in firm determination, and there’s a dark gleam in her eyes that he can’t remember seeing before. But he doesn’t say anything, and they leave the room hand in hand.

 

Evil won’t catch itself, after all.

  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

[‘Are you ready for an adventure?’

 

‘I guess, seeing as it’s been quite a while since we’ve had any sort of fun... But, what if I mess things up? I mean, I haven’t done anything _this_ big before, and I wouldn’t want to ruin it for you.’

 

‘Oh, you won’t ruin anything. If you have any problems just let me handle it; I won’t leave your side.’

 

‘Yeah, okay... Er, how _are_ we doing this, again? The plan was a bit...vague.’

 

‘I knew you’d ask that—that’s why I may have worked ahead a bit and acquired a couple starters. We can practice on them here before we relocate them to another area.'

 

‘That’s brilliant! Can we start right now? With the charms I put up we shouldn’t have to worry about them screaming too loudly, and any messes can be spelled away like always.’

 

‘Sounds like _someone’s_ excited. Here—would you do the honours?’

 

‘Of course, my Lord—I thought you’d never ask.’]


End file.
